Mr g by Alan Lightman Page B

slightly. The cells that had been tapped shuddered and twitched and sent peeps around to the others, and they began peeping in unison until the single chirp started up. After a few moments, the little grey blob got quiet again. Then I caused the twig to tap the thing two times, a pause, then three times. Well, this was big news. This was clearly a hello from the outside world. Now the cells that had been tapped trembled more strongly, contacted the others, and soon all two hundred million cells were excitedly chattering to one another as if they had just discovered that down was up. The single big chirp swelled and died and swelled, and as it moved through the thing it grew more and more complex, constantly modifying itself but returning to the same electrical pattern. The blob was
thinking
. It had somehow become an entity, not just a collection of two hundred million individual cells. And it had taken a bump from the outside world to make it recognize itself. Now there was clearly an outside world, and its own self. I analyzed its electrical commotion. It had no organized system of language, of course, but I could understand the electrical code and translate its meaning. Through a mist of confusion and primitive fragments of thought, a muffled message kept repeating: “Something is
out
there. Something is out
there
. Something is out there, and it has touched
me
.” The “me” was the most beautiful part, a special electrical pattern created by many cells at once that could have no other meaning. Quite beyond any analysis of its individual cells, beyond its electrical and chemical impulses going this way and that, the thing had a sensation of Unity. And, remarkably, I found that my feeling towards the thing had changed. Whereas before I had regarded it as a mere mass of material, now I had a sympathy towards the thing, even a tenderness. I wanted to protect this little thing.
    Two hundred million cells, more or less. And later, cities, machines, symphonies.

Voices
    I heard voices from the universe. From one star system, then another, then another. In the vast overlays of time and of space, inanimate matter was silent. But animate matter, matter with minds, spoke to me. Or more precisely, the creatures spoke to something they believed might be me. In some cases spoke to something they knew I was not. After all, I am what is, and I am what is not.
    Blessed Mover, thank you for this feast. Thank you for what you have given me and my children
.
    What does it mean? This sky, this hand? Does anyone know what it means
?
    God will kill you for ruining my life. God, are you listening
?
    The beauty!
    I cannot bear the pain any longer. Please let me die
.
    Curse you, Great Maker, or whatever you are. I asked for rain, and you do not bring rain. You are impotent. You are a fake
.
    I’m late again. I wish the days could be longer
.
    Is death the end? I cannot believe it is the end. All of this. How can it end
?
    “Such little lives,” said Belhor. “Wouldn’t you agree? But there is also something of grandeur in them. Not in the individual lives. The individuals are just tiny specks, nothing. But in the monstrous jellied masses of them, the crowds, the communes, and planets, there is something of grandeur. They have thoughts. And they strive.”
    “They strive for what they might attain,” I said. “And they also strive for what they cannot attain. Most of them yearn for immortality. They want to live forever, even though they do not know what forever means.”
    Belhor and I were walking together through the Void, just the two of us. He, as I, could hear the voices. “Yes, it is strange,” he said, “that they wish for immortality. As far as they know, immortality could be unending torture and excruciating pain.”
    “But they understand very well its opposite,” I said. “They understand mortality.”
    “That they do,” said Belhor. “They see death and dying all around them. They see other living things grow old,